Homesick?

[der meister 2,956]

The past week has not been the most successful one for young Ryuji Sakamoto. The offensive chops that he had displayed during the first quarter of the season have all but disappeared, his points nearly entirely dried up. I haven't said anything to him, but I've noticed a distinct change in his on-ice production since his Facetime "date" with Ann Takamaki. As someone with more grey in my beard than I care to admit, I've seen this kind of thing before, and lived through it myself, once upon a time.

 

"You know, Ryuji," I begin, trying to get his attention. He's been staring our the apartment window into the Istanbul skyline for an hour, at least. He doesn't turn toward me, or make the slightest motion to indicate that he heard me speak. "You did sign a rather large contract with the Red Wolves. Perhaps you could suggest to one or more of your friends from back home, from Tokyo, that they come out to visit you for a few days. It's perfectly natural to get homesick, and I'm sure at least one of your friends could spare a few days to visit. And, because of your big contract, you could afford to fly them out, so it wouldn't be any financial loss to them."

 

Sakamoto doesn't move or acknowledge me in any way. I'm tempted to go find a small hand mirror to hold in front of his face; not that I think he's dead, but just to prove a point to the young man. I let out an exaggerated sigh and pick up my book of crossword puzzles from the end table. A six-letter word for Breakfast Dish with a "U" as the second letter?

 

"Hey man," Sakamoto says, breaking my concentration and sounding oddly timid, "I was just thinking about something. Would you mind if I, I dunno, had a friend come over for a few days? I'm feelin' kinda homesick, and I was thinking I could offer to pay to fly someone out. Our apartment's kinda small, but it might be nice to, you know, see some old friends."

 

I smile at the boy. "Sure. That's totally fine with me." It seems as if the young defenseman was paying attention to me, at least subconsciously, and I'm not going to tell him that I had just suggested as much no more than five minutes earlier. 

 

"For real?!" Sakamoto exclaims. It's one of his most used phrases, and he always sounds so genuinely surprised when he says it. "I'm gonna send Ren a text right now!" He leaves the room, a spring in his step for the first time in a week. It's hard to remember, sometimes, that these kids that I follow around the world, documenting their hockey careers, are still kids. Music starts up in Sakamoto's bedroom, a strangely hypnotic acid jazz track that he tends to listen to when he's in a particularly good mood. Perhaps this is what he needs to get his game back on track...

 

"Quiche!" I blurt out, reaching for my pen.